


The Passenger

by writteninblood



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author loves 80s music, Canon-Typical Violence, Dadwald, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Former Punk Oswald Cobblepot, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Music, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder Family, Music, Season/Series 02, Tattoos, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 18:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninblood/pseuds/writteninblood
Summary: Edward meets Oswald and Martin on a train.





	The Passenger

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fluffy almost crack fic that isn't meant to be taken seriously. It's the story I was writing when my other fic Take My Heart When You Go got too depressing. 
> 
> Title taken from the Siouxsie and the Banshees song. 
> 
> A list of the songs mentioned in this story, as well as other music I listened to while writing it can now be found [here](https://afirefromheaven.tumblr.com/post/183573359735/the-passenger-playlist).
> 
> Things you need to know going into this AU:
> 
> -Ed hasn't killed anyone yet. In this verse Kristen firmly rejected him pre-Dougherty and gets to live.  
> -Ed only has a vague idea of who Oswald is.  
> -Elijah Van Dahl adopted Martin when he was a baby and they lived together just the two of them for a long time before Grace, Sasha and Charles came along.

The doors slide shut behind Edward, as he forces his way through the early morning commuter crowd towards a small sliver of a seat he can perch on the edge of. The other two occupants of the seat move up to make more room for him and he smiles brightly as he thanks them, getting a little more comfortable for the ride downtown.

Chopin’s ‘Nocturne #2 in E Flat, Op. 9, No. 2’ is playing through his headphones as he retrieves his dog-eared paperback from his bag. He smooths it open on his bookmarked page, and continues reading _Pet Cemetary_ , leaning his chin on his knuckles. 

This is how he spends his morning and evening commutes, quite happily in his own little world, because absolutely nothing interesting ever happens on the train.

Two stops later, his attention is caught by a pair of small waving hands in the seat in front of him. He looks up from his book to see a child, who can’t be more than ten, sitting sideways in his seat so he can look at him. He tilts his head inquisitively and smiles at Edward.

Edward instantly feels awkward. He has never liked children, didn’t like them even when he _was_ one. He forces his lips to move upwards in a strained approximation of a smile before going back to his book. He reads the same line several times because he can feel the boy’s eyes still watching him. Huffing a sigh, Edward looks up again, hoping his irritation will make the boy turn around.

It doesn’t. Instead, he smiles again, and motions with his fingers to his ears. Then he points at Edward, then back at his ears. The message seems clear enough—he wants to listen to Edward’s headphones. He glances at the man sat next to him, presumably his father, and he seems quite well to-do, and not the sort of person who would use their child to steal from strangers on public transit. He’s also not paying any attention to them, and is staring out of the window in the way of someone carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Edward briefly wonders what he’s thinking about.

Reluctantly he takes his headphones off, and places them gently over the boys ears. At that moment, ‘Radetzky Marsch, Op. 228’ is playing, a faster paced piece that a child might find marginally less dull than some of the other pieces on his mp3 player. As the boy starts to listen, a grin spreads across his features, his expression utterly enchanted. Edward finds himself smiling, despite himself. He is somewhat surprised the child doesn’t find it boring, as far removed from what kids listen to these days as Edward’s taste in music is. 

The child starts tapping his fingers along to the percussion on the back of the seat and Edward grins. Perhaps hope for this generation of youth is not entirely lost after all. When the piece ends, he hands the headphones back to Edward. He puts them around his neck.

“You liked it?” 

He receives a very enthusiastic nod in response, before retrieving something from around his neck—a notepad. He scribbles something then shows it to Edward. 

_Thank you_

The boy can’t speak. Edward is momentarily flooded with sympathy. He’s trying to remember something—anything—from the smattering of sign language classes he attended over a year ago, but is saved the potential embarrassment of signing completely the wrong words when the boy’s father finally turns to look at them, eyeing Edward angrily before turning his attention back to his son. 

“Martin, what have I told you about strangers? This is Gotham City, you can trust _no one_.” 

“I was just sharing my music—” Edward interjects, not wanting the boy, Martin, to get in trouble. But the man silences him with a look of utter contempt. He looks familiar somehow; with those distinct, elegant features, he’s sure he has seen them before. Right now however, he looks angry and harried. There are deep bags carved into the hollows under his eyes, and his skin has an extremely unhealthy pallor. 

This is one of the reasons Edward never wants to be a father.

He curls further back into his seat, suddenly wanting to be invisible under the weight of that glare—he still feels it—even though the man has already looked away. In front of him, Martin sits rigidly facing forward, his head tilted towards his dangling feet. Something unpleasant is taking place in their lives, or perhaps has already taken place and they are dealing with the repercussions. Edward doesn’t see any signs of physical abuse, thank goodness. Just a relationship under strain by circumstances. 

Why is he still thinking about these two strangers? He doesn’t know these people. He’ll probably never see them again. There are quite literally millions of people inside the city limits; the chances of Edward meeting anyone interesting or memorable are infinitesimal. 

He finally lifts his headphones back over his ears and forces his attention back to his book, but there’s no need—at the next stop, Martin and his father leave the train. He watches them head for the stairs with the masses, Martin holding on to his father’s hand. Just as they’re about to slip out of sight, Martin catches his eye and waves sadly. They’re gone before Edward can wave back. 

*

When Edward heads out to buy a newspaper on his lunch break, he discovers why the man looked so familiar; his family are legendary in Gotham, particularly at the moment, following the death of Elijah Van Dahl. His son, Oswald, is involved in an inheritance dispute with his mother-in-law and step siblings that has been a feast for the media. Now it makes sense why Oswald looked so tired and stressed, and why Martin was looking for a little piece of happiness elsewhere—it was a distraction from what is undoubtedly a miserable and exhausting situation. It explains why two such well dressed people were taking the train of all things. The Van Dahl estate is worth millions, and Oswald has potentially been barred from all of it. Now that he thinks about it, the stop where they got off the train is near a private boys school. If Oswald is taking his son to school on the train now, there’s a chance he’ll see them again. 

*

And that’s how he finds himself with a brand new headphone splitter and a pair of in-ear headphones, sitting on the train the following morning with both items plugged into his mp3 player. 

He has managed to acquire a full seat to himself and he has moved right up to the window so there’s plenty of room for people to sit beside him. Of course the chances of Oswald and his son getting this exact same train are not high—there are so many trains into the city at this time in the morning—but he has hope regardless. 

He’s gratified when he sees them waiting at a stop two down the line from his, though Edward’s carriage goes right past them leaving them at the other end of the platform. Martin managed to catch his eye though, and drags Oswald all the way through the train until he gets to Edward. 

Oswald glances at Edward very briefly; if he recognises him from yesterday he doesn’t give any sign of it. Martin sits between them, and once Oswald sits down, he stares resolutely at the seat in front of him, clearly a thousand miles away from the train in his mind. 

Edward notices for the first time that people are staring at him; some even getting their phones out to sneak photographs of the (former, possibly) millionaire and his son on public transit. Martin follows Edward’s gaze and then looks up at him quizzically. Edward shrugs, not sure how to explain the situation to a child. Instead he reaches into his pocket for an earphone and hands it to Martin, who tactfully puts it into the ear that Oswald can’t see, smiling when the sound of Tchaikovsky reaches his ears. 

They both jump however, when Oswald suddenly shouts, “ _what are you all looking at?_ ”

The people in the immediate vicinity hurry to put their phones in bags and pockets and to look away from him, many of them flushed and embarrassed. Oswald Cobblepot _is_ rather terrifying, especially from Edward’s close proximity.

“I’m glad my son and I can provide sufficient sport for your daily commute!” He adds, glaring around at everyone, though no one dares to meet his eyes. Exhaling shakily, he looks back at the chair in front of him, his fingers digging into his thighs. Edward watches as Martin covers one of Oswald’s hands with his own, looking up at him. Oswald softens a little and wraps an arm around Martin’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. Martin leans his head against Oswald’s upper arm, comfortingly. For a moment, Edward thinks everything will be all right, and that they can get through the rest of the journey in peace. 

When Oswald takes his arm away, the cord of the headphone set Martin is using sticks to Oswald’s hand, and he traces the wire with confusion. When he gets to Edward’s pocket, he looks up at Edward angrily, tugging the earphone from Martin’s ear and throwing it back at him. Edward flinches and braces himself. 

“We don’t need your _pity_ ,” Oswald spits cruelly. 

With that he gets up and takes hold of Martin’s hand, going to stand by the doors to wait for them to open at their stop. 

This time as they head for the station exit, Martin doesn’t turn to look at him. He keeps his head down and simply trails behind his father. 

Edward wraps the cord around his fingers and tries not to feel anything, staring numbly out the window without seeing. He always tries to distract himself from the sharp humiliation and hurt he always feels someone treats him unkindly. He tries to block it out now; tells himself it’s no different to when Detective Bullock talks down to him at work, or the way his landlord casually calls him a “fag” whenever they pass in the building, or how Kristen’s eyes are full of distaste and pity whenever she looks at him. He tries to keep his shields up, so all of the malevolence bounces off, determined to prove his worth and earn their respect. Does everyone have to work this hard?

He hastily pockets the spare headphones and prepares to leave the train at his stop. He has no option but to carry on against the rising tide. They’re just words, and those can’t hurt him. Edward is a master of words.

*

It’s finally Friday, and Edward is looking forward to the weekend, in particular the chess match he has planned with Roy, a man who lives in an old people’s home two blocks from Edward’s apartment, on Sunday afternoon. Edward doesn’t have much of a social life but he keeps himself busy, hunting for antiques and oddities across the vast city, where there’s always something new to discover. 

It’s an awful day, even by Gotham City standards, the rain unwavering and borderline tropical in its intensity. It makes a noisy din as it pounds the roof of the train. Today he’s utterly unable to find a seat, and even standing space is a struggle. He finds himself crammed against the doors, staring out of the rainy windows with melancholy as Liszt’s ‘Orpheus S. 98’ plays its enchanting melody into his ears. 

When the train arrives at Oswald and Martin’s stop, he tells himself it would be better not to look—he’s staring at the reflection of the garish on board lights in the window when in the corner of his eye he notices two people running for the train, outside the station. Of course it would be Oswald and Martin. It seems unlikely that they are going to make it, given Oswald’s limp and the fact they’re only just entering the station as the train stops. People take their time squeezing onto the train, but they’re both still too far away. They emerge onto the platform just as the doors start to slide closed, running straight for Edward’s set of doors. 

Conflicted, Edward catches their eyes through the doors, as Oswald hurriedly takes down his umbrella. Just as the doors are about to seal shut, Edward shoves his book between them, so they’ll be forced to reopen. They may not want his pity, but perhaps they do need his help. The book gives the pair just enough time to jump on board. Oswald arranges himself so his umbrella isn’t soaking anyone, and even though the space is cramped, Martin leans around from behind Oswald to grin at Edward and give him the thumbs up. Oswald is still fussing with his umbrella so Edward gives him a quick thumbs up back. 

As the train jolts into motion, Oswald, who has nothing to hold onto, is thrown backwards, straight into Edward. He places his hands on Edward’s chest to steady himself, looking around for something to hold onto for balance. 

Edward expects him to apologise like any ordinary person would for groping him in such a manner, intentional or not, but instead Oswald looks him over and glares as if it was _his_ fault. He hasn’t even thanked Edward for helping them to catch the train. 

Oswald ends up reaching over Edward’s shoulder to hold onto the pole behind him. He still looks ruffled from having to stand so close to Edward, and after checking Martin is all right, he turns around and glares into the carriage at all the people who’ve managed to snag seats. ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ plays next on shuffle and Edward has to stifle a laugh—there’s something extremely comical about listening to this piece while Oswald is looking at everything so angrily. His lips twitch with the effort, and he once again tries to stare out of the window and not focus on Oswald’s proximity to him. 

Unfortunately, at the next stop, as people pile out, Oswald gets pushed against Edward, and the man looks up at him incredibly flustered. His mouth is agape, unsure where to look, and he blinks far more than is normal. Edward watches him, fascinated, despite his automatic discomfort at being touched in this way. He experiences people brushing past him on the train almost every day, and it doesn’t faze him then—why it bothers him _now_ and in this particular situation is something he’ll have to ponder later. 

“This really is _unacceptable_ ,” he mutters in his exaggerated upper class accent. Once everyone has boarded, Oswald checks that Martin is still okay, before turning back to Edward. “How on earth do people do this _every day_?”

“You get used to it,” Edward says, noting how firmly Oswald’s feet are planted this time when the train moves forward. Feeling too awkward to just stand there, he lifts his book and tries to look like he’s reading, but what he really does, is take the opportunity to make a study of Oswald. He certainly has blue blooded features, those high cheek bones, the strong brows, his piercing stare. His pinstripe suit speaks of power, and the cut is tailored to perfection; Edward eyes the lines of it approvingly. The only part of his ensemble that he isn’t too sure about is the tie—navy blue, and really not the best colour to bring out his eyes and enhance his features. 

“You know, purple would be a much better colour on you,” Edward blurts out before he can stop himself. He wishes he could take the words back, and his hopes that maybe the screeching of the train brakes drowned some of that out are dashed when Oswald suddenly turns to look at him.

“ _What_ did you say?”

Edward starts to panic; wants to fix this before they arrive at Oswald and Martin’s destination. He can already see the platform up ahead. 

“It’s just—” Oswald raises his eyebrows expectantly as Edward fumbles, “well—”

The train is almost at a complete stop, and the pair of them will be gone within the next few moments.

“Purple of the colour of royalty and power, and it’s very befitting of you.” Oswald seems to have forgotten this is his stop because the doors have opened and people are leaving behind him, yet he himself makes no move to alight. 

His expression softens as he looks up at Edward, the first time he has looked at him with anything other than open hostility.

“And I think it would bring out your eyes.”

Oswald’s mouth opens slightly in apparent shock, or possibly distaste, Edward can’t tell. Edward has probably done it again, crossed the line, offended someone with his idiot mouth. 

Oswald is distracted then, as Martin is tugging on Oswald’s coat and gesturing to the exit. 

“Oh!” Oswald exclaims, catching on. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr—” Oswald says, as he and Martin struggle through the tide of people boarding the train. 

“Nygma! Edward Nygma!” He calls over the crowd. He isn’t sure if they heard him, as he loses sight of them, and then the doors close. He slaps his book against his face self-deprecatingly, wondering why it’s so difficult to interact with other people. As the train pulls away from the station, Edward slowly lowers his book and looks around  
himself self-consciously, but sees only one middle aged woman staring at him, one eyebrow raised, her expression amused.

“He’s way out of your league.” She says, dragging out the word ‘way’. 

Edward frowns, uncomprehending. 

“Money only marries money.” She elaborates.

Edward feels his cheeks heat as he realises what she means. “I don’t even know him,” he says, a little too defensively. 

“I know that look honey, _believe_ me.”

Edward heaves a sigh of relief as he sees his station up ahead. “There was no look. I don’t know him. We just happen to take the same train.”

Finally, the doors open and he hurries off, strangely agitated, followed by the sound of her laughter. 

The irritated mood sticks with him for the rest of the day.

*

For the first time in two months, Roy manages to beat Edward at chess. But he seems displeased with his win, proclaiming Edward so distracted that a child could have beaten him. 

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Roy asks, slowly lifting his cup of tea, holding the saucer underneath it.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Edward avoids the old man’s eyes and takes a sip of his own tea. 

“I see,” Roy comments, shakily placing his cup and saucer back on the table. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

Edward looks up so fast he almost cricks his neck, unable to stop the blush from blooming on his cheeks.

“This is Gotham, Ed, no one cares who you date.” He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, looking towards the sun. They’re seated in the courtyard of the care home, and it’s one of those rare calm and sunny afternoons where everything seems at peace. Roy looks especially content, his wrinkles crinkling upward as he enjoys the rays of sunlight. 

“My landlord would beg to differ,” Edward finds himself saying, sneering at the thought of that odious man. “And anyway, it’s not about dating, or anything like that. I met someone interesting on the train. Or two people, actually. They’re famous. You’ve probably heard of them.”

“Oh?” Roy says, not moving at all.

“Oswald Cobblepot, and his son Martin.”

Roy looks back at him, eyebrows raised. “Yes I suppose one could say Oswald Cobblepot is _interesting_...”

Edward looks up from the chessboard where he’d been analysing how badly he’d gone wrong and what moves he could have made differently. “Do you know him?”

“No, but I used to know Fish Mooney and she used to talk about him often, and I knew from that alone he was one-to-watch. Never would have predicted him killing her, though.”

“But the Penguin killed Fish Mooney…” Edward says, frowning. “You’re saying that Oswald Cobblepot is the Penguin? That the Van Dahl heir is a gangster?”

Edward knows about the Penguin of course, and his legendary rise to power, and had often dreamed of meeting such a fearsome man. He had just never made the connection between the sullen man with the small boy and the story that’s dominating the papers. It all seems so incredible, that he should get his wish, on his morning commute of all places.

“Not just _a_ gangster, _the_ gangster. Or at least he was until recent events.”

“You mean the inheritance dispute?”

“No I mean losing his mother, going to Arkham, discovering his father after getting out, losing said father and then adopting his father’s ward with nothing to support him on…”

“So there is no chance of him claiming any of his birthright then?”

“I doubt it. Old Van Dahl died before he could amend his will to reflect his newfound son. All too suspiciously if you ask me.”

“You think there was foul play?”

“I think it’s all a bit too quick a sequence of events to be coincidental,” Roy says thoughtfully. “You certainly know how to pick ‘em. Cobblepot and his boy will bring you nothing but trouble.”

Edward gazes at Roy as though seeing him for the first time. He’s not a man Edward would have pegged for having a criminal past. He looks so harmless in his red t-shirt, jeans and loafers.

“How did you know Fish Mooney?” Edward can’t help but ask. He wonders if his name is even Roy.

He smirks and waves his hand dismissively. “That’s a story for another day, Mr. Nygma.”

It’s an effective ending to their meeting, and Edward retrieves his coat from the back of his chair and slips it on, standing up and holding out his hand to Roy. 

“Same time next week?”

“You got it,” Roy says, smiling as he shakes Edward’s hand. “Watch your back, Ed. It took me long enough to find as good a chess partner as you, and I’ll probably die before I find another one, if you get all mixed up with criminals and wind up dead in an alley.”

Edward smiles at the compliment, even as he feels guilty for not being a worthy opponent this particular afternoon. “I promise I won’t be distracted next week.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Edward takes his leave and quickly walks back to his apartment. He has a lot to think about.

*

Edward has to order an extra strong coffee before stepping on the train on Monday morning. He hadn’t slept very well, distracted by the new knowledge that he had met the notorious criminal, the Penguin. He had told the _Penguin_ what colour would be better for him to wear, and had somehow walked away with all his limbs intact. Edward knows he wouldn’t have said it if he’d have had any idea who he was saying it to. 

To think, he’d originally thought Oswald was just another exhausted parent.

He’s a little jumpy by the time the train pulls into Oswald and Martin’s station. 

For the first time, he hopes that father and son don’t spot him, and he shrinks as much as he can into his window seat. Edward’s insolence the previous week is unforgivable. Nobody tells the Penguin what to wear. 

Edward thinks he’s in the clear, once everyone has boarded, and there’s no sign of Oswald and Martin. 

That is, until the door between carriages opens and in walks Oswald, leading Martin by the hand. He spots Edward, and makes a beeline for him, eyes full of intent. 

Oh god, the Penguin is coming to kill him. The urge to get up and run is strong, and Edward forces himself to sit upright, shoulders straight. Killing someone on public transit with this many witnesses in broad daylight would be bold even for the Penguin. But not entirely beyond the realm of possibility.

Edward tries not to look as afraid as he feels as they approach his seat. Oswald guides Martin to sit down between them, and Edward does think it’s nice that Oswald seems to want to shield the boy from others. 

Martin waves hello, and Edward waves back, before reluctantly looking up and meeting Oswald’s eyes. 

“Good morning,” Oswald says, and then he gives Edward a small mischievous smile.

He’s wearing a purple tie.

Edward feels a little like a fish flopping about on dry land, unsure how to respond to the sudden civility.

Penguins eat fish. 

“Morning, Mr. Penguin—sir.” Edward closes his eyes, purses his lips and cringes. When he opens them again, Oswald’s eyes seem to be twinkling with amusement.

“Oswald will do,” he says.

Edward swallows and nods. He can’t think of a darn thing to say. Oswald continues to watch him with his sharp gaze.

“Do you have your music player with you?” Oswald asks, and it’s yet another curveball Edward is unsure how to handle.

“Yes,” Edward says, uncertain about whether he is meant to retrieve it from his bag. 

“Could you give it to Martin? I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Edward can’t stop his automatic confused frown but says, “all right,” and complies. Martin puts the headphones over his ears and searches on the mp3 player for something to listen to.

To Edward’s great surprise, Oswald pulls out a cassette walkman, complete with old fashioned headphones, an 80s relic. 

“Martin told me you listen to classical music,” Oswald says, untangling the headphone wires. “I do have an appreciation for classical and opera myself, but nothing will ever beat my old favourites.”

Edward hardly knows how to contain himself at this change in behaviour; both the fact that Oswald is sharing information about himself _with him_ and the fact that he likes classical music too.

“Would you care to listen?” Oswald says, holding out the headphones. He seems earnest now, rather than amused, and Edward is so intrigued he can hardly say no. Instead he smiles, and holds his hand out to take the headphones. Once over his ears, he nods to Oswald, and looks out the window and waits with giddy anticipation for him to press play.

Immediately, someone angry and British yells into his ears, and Edward is unsuccessful at holding back a jump at the sudden burst of tinny noise. He looks at Oswald again and sees mirth dancing in his eyes once again. Edward smiles sheepishly and goes back to staring out of the window, attempting to focus on the music.

Edward doesn’t really know much about music outside his vast knowledge of opera and classical but he knows enough to recognise that the music he is listening to is called punk. He listens to another song, one about London, which he’s pretty sure he has heard before. He is struck by the image of Oswald as a punk in his youth, all ripped denim, steel toe-capped boots and angry attitude. Edward finds himself smiling at the thought, and takes off the headphones once the song ends. 

“You listen to punk.” Edward states obviously. 

Oswald smirks. “Of course. The Clash are my favourite band.”

“Were you a punk when you were younger?”

His smirk widens into a grin. “Oh yes. Mohawk and tattoos, the whole nine yards.”

“You have tattoos?” Edward blurts out, still amazed that Oswald is talking to him, and telling him things probably no one else knows. He should probably blink soon. 

Oswald casts a furtive look around himself before pulling up the jacket sleeve of his right arm and undoing the cuffs of his shirt. He pinches the fabric and pulls it back to reveal what looks like the bottom of an entire tattoo sleeve. He holds it out, but keeps it below the back of the seat in front, so only he and Martin can see. Edward isn’t able to analyse the intricate details for long before Oswald is covering it up again. He saw some text in an Eastern European language--possibly Hungarian? And there was a pair of crossed guns and text underneath that read _as in heaven, as in hell_. He thinks he might have seen some lilies there too, but his preview was too short to be certain. He is struck by a desire to see the rest of it, and to see if Oswald’s other arm or the rest of him has tattoos as well, but feels a flush creep up his neck and spread to his cheeks as he realises the state of undress Oswald would have to be in for that to happen. He gives his head a little shake. What a ridiculous notion.

“Ah, Martin, we’re here.”

Martin looks a little disappointed as the train arrives at their station, and Edward hurries to remove the headphones from around his neck and hand the walkman back to Oswald. Oswald however, holds up his hands. “You can borrow it.” He gets up and Martin follows suit, laying Edward’s own mp3 player down carefully on the seat beside Edward.

“Enjoy your education,” Oswald says with a wink. And then he and Martin are making their way off the train, leaving Edward with two personal stereos and a very bewildered expression. 

*

Edward takes his lunch break at one, after conducting some very important scientific experiments on a watermelon. He flops in his desk chair, still in his apron, and pulls off his gloves and goggles, before retrieving his lunch box and thermos from his bag. In order to get to the lunch box, he has to remove Oswald’s walkman, but instead of putting it back, he leaves it on the table, and eyes it curiously. Once he has finished eating, he picks it up carefully. Now no longer under Oswald’s intimidating gaze, he turns over the small cassette player in his hands, looking for signs of Oswald’s ownership. There’s no name on it, but there are lots of scratches and scuffs on the corners; signs of a well-used and well-loved personal stereo. He had always wanted one when he was younger, but it had been deemed too frivolous an item, when he had to make do with the bare essentials. 

He opens up the unit and takes out the tape, unsurprised to see block capitals in permanent marker running over the label and onto the plastic. It says simply ‘THE CLASH’ and on side B it says ‘OTHER STUFF.’ Edward puts the tape back in the same way it was before and hits play, hurrying to put the headphones on so he doesn’t miss the beginning of the next song.

It’s only the third song he has heard, but he immediately likes this one better than the first two. He can imagine Oswald with the walkman clipped to the top of his ripped jeans, walking down the street with attitude. The thought makes him smile, and he leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk, and nodding his head along to the beat. 

He’s s so lost in the music that he doesn’t hear Jim and Harvey enter the room, and jumps right out of his seat when Jim puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Is that _Rock the Casbah_?” Harvey asks incredulously, snatching the headphones and placing one side against his ear. Edward snatches it back scornfully.

“Don’t _touch_ that, it belongs to a friend.”

“Easy Ed,” Harvey says, holding up his hands and backing up a step.

“I didn’t know you liked punk rock,” Jim says, eyeing him curiously.

He didn’t, until a few minutes ago. But he plasters on his best work smile and says, “I suspect there are a great many things you don’t know about me, Detective.”

Jim and Harvey exchange a look. 

“Right,” Jim says, looking a little bemused. “We just came down here to see what you could tell us about this.” He holds up a small bloody knife in a protective sealed bag. “It’s from the Aguirre case we discussed this morning.”

“Alrighty,” Edward says, taking the bag and inspecting the weapon. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Thanks Ed,” Jim says with a nod and his awkward side-smile.

Harvey looks like he wants to get one more jab in before he leaves, but Jim grabs his arm and pulls him along behind him and out of the lab. The second they are out of the door, Edward’s smile drops, and he puts the bag down gently on the desk before going to wash his hands. 

He rewinds the cassette player, puts it in the pocket of his lab coat and grins as the whimsical melody tinkers into his ears once again. He snaps on his protective gloves as he goes about his analysis, and if he does the odd gleeful two-step around the lab or wiggles his behind as he bends over the microscope, that’s okay. There’s no one around to see.

*

“Well, how did you like it?” Oswald asks as he and Martin come to stand beside him in the middle of the carriage, Oswald protectively holding Martin’s hand so he doesn’t get lost in the crowd.

Edward can’t help his enthusiasm as he reaches in his bag for Oswald’s walkman. “Oh I liked it very much. And on side B—I very much enjoyed _The Passenger_. Very topical.”

He liked most of the songs, but not all of them are safe to mention. Highlighting _Ever Fallen In Love_ and _Let’s Spend the Night Together_ , for example, might give Oswald the wrong impression. 

“Yes I thought you might make that connection,” Oswald says, that amused glint back in his eyes. He sighs wistfully, then. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“I’ve never really listened to anything outside classical, but I have no doubt that you’re right.”

They stand in companionable silence for a while, Edward unable to think of anything to say about Oswald’s music that might not be too personal. Oswald smiles up at him and Edward gets the feeling that though he is undoubtedly amused by Edward’s strangeness, he finds him interesting too, worth making a study of. The attention makes Edward’s heart beat a little faster. 

Oswald’s focus is then drawn away from him by Martin tapping him on the arm and holding up a note. 

_Ask him_

Oswald widens his eyes at Martin in an obvious silent command to cease but Martin stares back undeterred. Edward watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, utterly fascinated.

Oswald finally turns back to Edward who tries to smile amiably.

“I’m afraid Martin wants to invite you over for dinner,” Oswald says, as though this the gravest of grievances. Edward tries to hold back his pure delight at the idea. He licks his lips and waits for Oswald to continue.

“Our current… _situation_ isn’t really suited to hosting guests, if you understand…” Oswald looks ashamed at having to explain this and Edward wants nothing more than to make that feeling go away and bring back that mischievous look of amusement. He really loathes Oswald’s step family for doing this to him.

“You could come to my place!” Edward says, and he knows it comes out far too excited. _Tone it down a little, Ed._ “I mean, if you would like. It would be my pleasure to host you.”

“Well if you’re sure. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Not at all. You’d be very welcome. How about tonight? Say seven?”

“All right,” Oswald says jovially, his crows feet pronounced. “Tonight it is.”

“My address is—”

“I already know where you live, Mr. Nygma. I have a child. You don’t think I would allow our continued association without doing a background check on you, do you?”

They’re arriving at Oswald and Martin’s stop, and Oswald prepares to exit, casting one last glance at Edward, who is trying not to gawp in shock and failing miserably. He can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed for his reactions to things, though, especially when Oswald is rewarding him with a pleased and somewhat smug grin. 

“We’ll see you tonight.” He turns away then, and Martin gives him a friendly wave, before following his father off the train.

Edward proceeds to spend the rest of the day panicking about making his apartment presentable enough for such company. He works through lunch so he can leave slightly earlier, giving him more time to prepare for his dinner guests. 

By the time he’s finished, the place is so clean that if he had murdered someone there, there would not be one single trace of it. He isn’t sure what kind of entertainment Martin might like. He leaves one of the controls of his games console on the living room table, along with some puzzle books and his mp3 player. Hopefully he will like at least one of them. 

He has an internal dilemma about food too, and in the end decides to order Chinese—everything off the menu, so he can make a sort of buffet and they can choose whatever they like from it. He’s just arranging the last of the spring rolls on a plate when there’s a knock on the door. They’re a little late, but that’s public transit, Edward supposes. 

He slides the big industrial door across and smiles at Oswald and Martin. “Hi!” He says excitedly. “I ordered Chinese, I hope that’s okay.”

Martin’s eyes light up and he almost starts salivating at the sight of all the food. Even Oswald himself looks keen to dig in. Edward wonders just how rough their home situation is that they’re this excited about takeout. 

They all take plates and help themselves, and they don’t talk much to begin with, as they satiate their immediate hunger. When they’re done, Martin helps Edward wrap up the leftovers and throw out the empty containers. Edward pours himself and Oswald more wine, and Martin a glass of cola.

“If you like video games, I have a games console,” Edward says, and an excited fervour immediately comes into Martin’s eyes as he starts nodding. “Games are next to the console under the TV. Help yourself.”

Martin grins and writes ‘thank you’ on his notepad before going to settle himself in front of the TV. Edward goes back over to the dining table and takes a sip of his wine.

“You certainly put a lot of thought into this,” Oswald observes, watching Martin set up the console. “He used to have one at his old home. He used to play on it all the time—gave him an excuse to get away from everything. I think it comforts him.”

Edward smiles nervously, unsure what to say about such a direct reference to their misfortunes.

“Thank you again for dinner. I think Martin was getting sick of my goulash.” He chuckles as he runs a finger up and down the side of the beaker (Edward really must invest in some proper wine glasses).

“I’m sure it’s very nice,” Edward says, intrigued. “Is it a family recipe?”

“How could you possibly know that?” Oswald asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“When you showed me your tattoos, I saw some eastern European text. Goulash is a famously eastern European dish. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

Leaning back in his chair, Oswald looks at him quizzically, as if trying to fathom him out.

“Clever,” Oswald concedes.

“Thank you,” Edward grins, trying to remember the last time he received a compliment. He decides he should continue talking before his happiness surpasses what might be deemed normal. “I don’t have any tattoos. But yours are really quite lovely.”

 _Lovely?_ Edward puts his wine down and inwardly slaps his hand across his face in embarrassment. He can feel his cheeks heating which is never a good sign. 

“Did they hurt?” Edward hastily adds, since Oswald has started staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. 

“Not really,” Oswald says, manner dismissive. “I have a high pain tolerance.”

Something about that sentence makes Edward’s throat go dry, and he swallows. 

“I wanted to become a tattoo artist for a while. Since I derive so much joy from inflicting pain on people.” He smirks as if he might be joking. Edward knows he isn’t.

Edward undoes the very top button of his shirt, as it’s getting suffocatingly hot underneath it. 

“Would you like to see the other arm?” Oswald asks, already rolling up his sleeve. 

“Oh yes!” Edward says, moving around to pull the chair where Martin had been sitting close to Oswald’s side.

He lays his arm on the table, palm up, and Edward’s glasses fall down his nose as he leans in to analyse the designs. 

Just below the elbow crease is a fishbone, and while the meaning is obvious, Edward can’t help but be confused as to why he would permanently mark himself with the memory of a woman he killed.

“She was almost like a mentor to me,” Oswald says, answering Edward’s unspoken question. “She made me the man I am as much as my own mother did.”

Edward nods thoughtfully, but then frowns at the intimacy of his statement. It seems strange that Oswald Cobblepot himself would tell him such personal things when prior to this evening they were mere acquaintances, especially considering the distaste Oswald had initially shown towards him. Edward sits up, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and meets Oswald’s curious eyes.

“Why are you here?” Edward asks.

Edward half-expects him to come back with a lazy, deliberately obtuse reply such as “you invited me” but Oswald is too clever to misunderstand. He merely raises an eyebrow.

“Is it because I work at the GCPD and you want someone on the inside?”

Oswald snorts. “ _Please_. If you think half the cops that work there aren’t already crooked you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Well, what then? There’s nothing special about me. What’s in this for you?”

“Perhaps I wanted to make myself feel better by spending time with someone even more pathetic than me.”

Edward takes the cruelty in his stride. It’s what he’s used to after all. “You wouldn’t waste your time on such indulgences.”

Oswald raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised at Edward’s certainty about his character. 

“You’re right. And you shouldn’t waste your time on all this self deprecation and self loathing. I see a lot of potential in you, Edward, but you’re throwing it away by being so self-defeating.”

Edward is momentarily stunned by the notion that Oswald thinks _he_ has potential. But potential for _what_? To be like him? Giddy excitement courses through his veins then, at the idea of a life on the other side of the law, where he could truly be a master of his own fate. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before, but to be legitimised by the Penguin himself...what if he _could_ do it?

Oswald seems to misconstrue Edward’s silence for offence, because he continues. 

“These past few weeks have been the worst of my life. I’m sure you’ve read about it in the papers.” The the veneer of lofty superiority vanishes as Oswald looks over at Martin, who is still engrossed in his video game. “It’s been a very painful time for Martin and I. I’m not sure how I would have gotten through any of it without him. But he is only ten years old, and he cannot be expected to carry the weight of my grief as well as his own. And in his infinite wisdom, he decided that what I needed was a friend.”

He looks back at Edward, who feels pinned by the desperate hope in his eyes. The Penguin, with his guard down. 

“So what do you say? Would you like to be my friend, Edward?” He holds out his hand to shake. 

It’s all very formal, and Edward is seized by the urge to hug him, but is terrified of making a wrong move when this is all going so much better than he had ever dared to imagine. 

“I am a ship that can be made to ride the greatest waves. I am built not by objects, but by minds. What am I?”

Oswald tilts his head and looks at Edward inquisitively.

“Friendship,” Edward answers for him, as he shakes his hand. 

Oswald smiles at him, and it’s the first time he has done so without any trace of mocking. His expression seems to reflect what Edward feels - disbelief. 

As their hands slowly part, Edward notices angry red blotches just above his wrist.

“I got that one this past weekend, in memory of my father,” Oswald says, watching Edward as he eyes the new addition to his tattoo sleeve with interest. It looks like a small piece of ribbon floating on the wind. “He loved fine clothing, and had a taste for the finer things in general. So I thought it a fitting tribute.”

When Edward looks up, he’s alarmed to see Oswald’s eyes filling up with tears. Oswald must see concern on Edward’s face because he blinks and hurriedly wipes the escaped tears from his face. 

Edward frowns and leans closer, conspiratorially, as Oswald eyes him warily. 

“Oswald, you’re the _Penguin_ , why don’t you just _get rid_ of them?” Edward says, tone urgent and voice low.

Oswald’s eyes go wide as he casts a panicked glance at Martin, who appears to still be engrossed in his game. “I _can’t_ just get rid of them. They’re the only other family Martin has.”

Martin suddenly turns to look at them, putting down his controller and coming over to the table, shaking his head at Oswald, before hurriedly writing something on his notepad. 

_I hate them_

He shows the note to Oswald and Edward in turn, before ripping it off and writing another.

_They were always mean to me when Grandpa wasn’t looking. Sasha used to call me a freak. Grace said I was a devil child_

Edward hardly knows either Oswald or Martin but is angry for them both. He’s angry for himself too. He grew up with similar name-calling.

The next thing Martin shows them is a drawing of three mutilated bodies, presumably Oswald’s step-family. Oswald looks up at Edward. 

“I could help you,” Edward says eagerly. 

“Ha!” Oswald says, cruelly. “As if I need anyone’s help to stage a murder and cover it up.”

Edward purses his lips before leaning back in his seat and saying, “I didn’t say you ‘needed’ it.”

Oswald seems to pick up on his put-out tone because he says, “well I suppose it would be nice to have someone help with the heavy lifting,” Oswald concedes. 

Martin grins at them both, pleased. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Oswald asks, seriously. “I mean, given where you work and everything…It’s one thing to be friends with a homicidal criminal but it’s quite another to _become_ one.”

Edward is suddenly more sure of this than anything. He’s _ready_ , and he has been building towards this for a long time. The thought of cutting someone’s throat makes his hand twitch where it rests on his knee.

“All the more reason they won’t suspect me. And anyway, what are friends for?”

*

They choose the following Friday night as _the night_. Edward really enjoys his commute that week, spending every morning with Oswald and Martin, chatting and sharing music. Edward loves being greeted warmly by them both, it makes it easier to bear when he goes to work and is ignored by everyone unless they need something. 

Work is easier in general now that he has friends, _and_ the knowledge that he is about to commit murder right under the noses of his colleagues. In fact, Edward doesn’t think he has ever been this happy. And Friday will be the icing on the cake, helping Oswald and Martin get the justice they deserve. He is incredibly excited to see the _Penguin_ in action, and eager to impress him with his own talents.

Oswald tells him the full story of his meeting his father and his death a short time later over the phone one evening, after Martin has gone to bed. Edward is enraged to learn that Mr. Van Dahl was poisoned with a concoction that was meant for Oswald, wishes it wasn’t too late to examine the body and prove that Grace killed him. Though given that he hasn’t been buried long, he probably could still find traces of it, and makes the mistake of telling Oswald as much. Apparently it would be distasteful to dig up his father’s body. Edward makes a mental note of that and apologises profusely for suggesting it.

In the car on the way to the Van Dahl mansion, they listen to Oswald’s tape, with _Ace of Spades_ currently providing the rousing soundtrack to their murder mission. Martin is being looked after by an associate of Oswald's named Victor Zsasz; they had deemed it too risky to bring him along with them. 

Grace Van Dahl and her children don’t have the inheritance yet, as Oswald is still officially contesting it, his only evidence being that Elijah Van Dahl reached out to his lawyer knowing he wanted to make some changes to his will, but never getting the chance to specify what exactly. Though with the timing of Oswald entering Elijah’s life, the implication is obvious, and it’s that uncertainty which has slowed the process down and prevented Grace’s access to Elijah’s great wealth. At the moment, all they have is the house. And no security, because they don’t have any money to fund it. And they don’t know that Oswald has Martin’s key, one that he had entrusted to Martin before Grace and her children came along.

Prior to getting out of the car, Oswald pulls his scarf up to his nose and puts on a bowler hat that Edward finds quite fetching. Edward pulls up his collar and puts on his flat cap, and they both pull on leather gloves. They check their pockets for their weapons, grab the duffel from the trunk, and step out of the car. 

Edward had dearly wanted to use his crowbar for this, but there’s only two of them and they have three people in three separate bedrooms to kill, so it’s imperative they don’t make any noise. 

They creep upstairs and along the landing to the bedrooms, leaving the duffel on the landing. Oswald shows him Charles’ bedroom, while he himself goes to stand outside Sasha’s. They nod to each other, take out their weapons and quietly step into the rooms. 

Charles is sleeping on his side, facing away from Edward. He has almost made this too easy for him. With only minor creaks in the floorboards, Edward carefully crosses the room to the bed, climbing up onto it and moving quickly. He sneaks an arm underneath his neck, so he can cover his mouth. Charles wakes up then, his eyes wide and panicked, belatedly starting to struggle. Edward clamps his leg firmly around his, from his position laying behind him. He readies his knife above Charles’s jugular.

“This is for Oswald, you worthless leech.” 

The moment the blade slices into his skin, he knows it won’t be the last time he does this. He’ll do it again, and again, and again. He can see it in his future, clear as day. Edward watches mesmerised as the blood stains the white sheets, spreading beautifully like a drop of paint in water. Charles’ jerks involuntarily as he struggles futilely. Edward maintains his position until Charles’ body finally gives up its hold on life. He gingerly gets up and walks around to the other side of the bed, admiring the corpse. His first kill. 

Laughter bubbles up through him and it’s a job to suppress it and stop himself from making any noise. He claps his non bloody hand to his mouth and laughs silently at the ridiculous expression on Charles’ face, adrenaline rushing through his veins, rendering him dizzyingly giddy. Once he starts it’s difficult to stop—the more he looks at Charles’ face, the funnier it gets. 

“Pssst!” 

Edward looks up to see Oswald standing in the doorway, beckoning him over with urgency.

“Murder now, gloat _later_ ,” Oswald whispers, once Edward reaches him. Suitably chastised, Edward lowers his head and prepares to follow Oswald to Grace’s room. But Oswald tilts his chin up and makes Edward look him in the eyes. 

“Very nicely done,” he says quietly, looking pleased. Edward’s heart stutters and he feels like he must be glowing luminously with pride.

Oswald turns around then and leads him into Grace’s bedroom. 

She is still sleeping soundly, utterly unaware that her children have both just been slain, and Edward thrills at that fact. 

Once they’re in position with Oswald by her side and Edward behind him with a gun trained on her, Oswald shakes her awake. 

“Hello, dear step-mother,” Oswald says his voice dripping with sickening sweetness. Edward’s mouth goes dry—he’s about to see the Penguin have his revenge. 

Grace looks between Oswald and Edward and draws in breath for a scream.

“You can make all the noise you want, there’s no one in a ten mile radius who’s going to hear you.” And then just like that, his demeanour changes. “ _Get up!_ ” He yells. 

She looks, panicked, from Oswald to Edward. “Do as he says,” Edward demands, thrusting his gun forward and making her jump. She holds up her hands and shakily gets to her feet, her nightdress pooling around her ankles. 

“You can do whatever you want to me, just don’t hurt Charles or Sasha…”

Edward and Oswald smirk at each other. 

“Follow me,” Oswald instructs, and she does, albeit crying and whimpering as she goes. Edward follows behind with his gun still aimed at her.

They tie her up in the dining room and take off their coats; this is the part Oswald intends to savour and it won’t be over quickly. 

He spends a long time frightening her with his ideas of how he wants to torture her, and Edward is impressed by his knowledge of how to truly terrify a person. She’s as white as a sheet, covered in a cold sweat and shaking like a leaf.

Eventually she completely loses her composure and shouts, “Charles! Sasha!”

“I’m afraid they won’t be coming,” Oswald says, running the tip of his finger very lightly along the blade of his knife. “Why is that, Edward?”

Edward almost accidentally pulls the trigger on his gun, he’s so excited to have been involved. “Because we killed them!” He cries gleefully. 

“But don’t worry, soon you’ll be joining them in hell,” Oswald says, his tone dropping to something acidic. “You’re nothing but a blood-sucking parasite, and you are going to pay for what you did to my father.”

And then he sinks his knife into her chest.

Edward suspects he meant to draw this out more, really make her suffer agonising pain for hours, but he is so overcome with grief and anger at the thought of his lost father, that he loses control. He stabs her repeatedly, blood splattering everywhere, and even after she has stopped screaming he is still plunging the blade into her organs. She is a bloody mess, her body shape no longer discernible, her innards about to slither onto the floor. 

Cautiously, Edward steps forward and puts his hands gently on Oswald’s shoulders. They don’t really want to make more of a mess than they have to, especially since she is already dead. There’s little satisfaction to be gained from defiling a corpse. Oswald's hand pauses mid air, and the only sound to be heard is the dripping of blood and his laboured breaths. 

Edward had thought before that once it was done, Oswald would be happy, but he sees now that it's not that simple. Killing her hasn't brought his father back, and he still has to live with that loss. Oswald turns around to face him, looking completely overwhelmed, his eyes rapidly filling with tears. Edward isn’t sure what to do, whether he should offer comfort— Oswald looks so lost, standing there, staring at Edward’s chest, unseeing. Edward gently takes the knife from his hand and puts it and his gun on the table behind him. Oswald is tightly wound, standing there rigidly as though he can’t hold all of his emotions on his own. 

“Oswald?” Edward asks gently. 

He suddenly looks up at him, startled, as if he hadn’t realised Edward was standing there. 

“Ed—I need—would you—”

Edward acts without consciously making the decision to, wrapping his arms around Oswald and enfolding him in his embrace. Oswald grabs onto him desperately as though Edward is a life raft in an empty ocean, choking out a half-sob as he buries his head in Edward’s shoulder. 

It doesn’t come naturally to Edward to give affection, and he isn’t used to being required in this way, but he tries to provide what comfort he can. Oswald has clearly been starved of this type of support and severely needs it. He realises that all this time he has been relied upon by Martin, but Oswald has had no one to lean on himself, no one with whom to share the burden of his grief. He has been under tremendous strain, and even a man like the Penguin needs backup sometimes. 

Edward isn’t sure what he expects from this hug, there’s only one other time he can remember hugging a person and that was Jim Gordon. He always thinks of that with embarrassment, a moment of sheer stupidity. Flowery behaviour, as his landlord would say. 

But this—this doesn’t feel unpleasant. In fact, Oswald trusting him and allowing him to see him like this makes it something significant, something to be revered. 

Oswald doesn’t indulge himself for long, however. Hardly a couple of minutes have passed when he jerkily removes himself from Edward’s embrace. 

“I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t usually—”

“It’s all right,” Edward assures him. “You’ve been through a lot. The human brain can only withstand so much.”

Oswald gives him a small smile, and Edward can still see a hint of disbelief there. It seems he’s not the only one who has a hard time believing this friendship is real. 

Oswald turns away from him then, to look back at the remains of Grace Van Dahl. 

“Do you want to go and zip up the other two while I take care of this one?”

“Are you sure? I can—”

“No, I need to do this. It’s going to be me that scoops her into a bag and throws her into the ground.”

“All right,” Edward says, trying to perk up his demeanour. “Back in a jiffy!”

*

They somehow force the bodies into the trunk, and drive out to the woods to bury them. It’s a lot of effort to carry three bodies through the darkness of the dense woodland, plus two shovels and Edward’s duffel. 

Once they find an ideal spot, Edward suspects that Oswald might make him do most of the work, since he is Edward’s superior here in every sense. But he mucks in and does his fair share, digging with surprising strength. Edward supposes he is working through the tumult of his feelings as he digs; he looks extraordinarily focused. They work together in a companionable silence, until they’ve dug a hole almost big enough for Edward to stand in and not see above the top. 

Edward drags Charles and Sasha’s bodies over one by one and rolls them unceremoniously into the grave. Edward expects that he might make a speech before he adds Grace to the grave, and he stands quietly opposite Oswald, waiting patiently.

Oswald, however, drops the bag into the grave with a resounding splat, looking down at it with distaste. For a few moments he is silent, and Edward briefly thinks he will say nothing at all. 

“You took my father from me. You never gave Martin the love he deserves. I hope you will be forever tortured in the fiery pits of hell, you gold digging harlot.”

Edward doesn’t believe in heaven or hell but he very much likes the sentiment. Oswald stands looking into the grave with an expression of cold fury, and Edward decides this is the time to fetch the wine he’d daringly taken from the mansion.

Wine and two glasses in hand, he comes around to Oswald’s side of the grave and sits down, smiling and patting the ground beside him. 

Oswald’s expression softens a little as he struggles to sit down and accommodate his injured leg. Edward pours him a glass first, and Oswald accepts it gratefully. 

“I hope you don’t mind me taking these from the mansion. I thought we should have something to celebrate.”

“Not at all,” Oswald says, waiting for Edward to pour himself a glass. They then raise their glasses and Oswald adds, “to revenge.”

“To revenge,” Edward echoes. 

They drink their wine with their legs dangling over the edge of the grave, getting progressively more giddy with each glass, as they laugh about the brief looks of terror on Charles and Sasha’s faces, how horrified Grace had been to learn of her children’s deaths. Edward gets intoxicated more quickly than Oswald, given that he doesn’t drink very often, and he finds himself leaning into Oswald as they talk, his eyes drawn repeatedly to Oswald’s lips, and to the long line of his neck. He catches himself staring, and he tries not to, but it’s so difficult when Oswald throws back his head and laughs; there’s a burning under his skin that’s more than just the tingling of alcohol. Their fingers brush as Oswald wildly gesticulates, and Oswald doesn’t seem to notice, but Edward does. It makes his breath stall every time. 

By the time they reach the end of the second bottle, Edward’s hand is on Oswald’s knee, and he’s laying his head on Oswald’s shoulder; likely more for the purpose of staying upright than any romantic intentions. But it feels so good to be close to Oswald like this, here in the darkness of the forest, with only the muted light of the moon to see by, now that they’ve no use for a torch. Roy had been right, Edward realises. He had been distracted over a “guy”, and not because he was his friend...because he wanted him to be more than that.

Suddenly nothing is more important than telling Oswald just how much it means to Edward that he didn’t just dismiss him, like most other people do. He feels such a strong mix of gratitude, admiration, and something new that’s beginning to take root, more prevalent now his inhibitions have been greatly lowered by alcohol.

“Oswald,” Edward starts, attempting to sit upright on his own. It’s a lot more effort than he anticipated. “I want you to know how grateful I am to you for giving me this opportunity. You have changed me for the better, and like the butterfly, I’ve come to realise I cannot be a caterpillar once again.”

Oswald looks at him then, and he seems a great deal more sober than Edward. He forges onwards regardless.

“I hope you know that I would do _anything_ for you, Oswald. Anything at all.”

Oswald’s eyes widen, and he goes so still that Edward thinks he might have stopped breathing. He immediately starts inwardly panicking—has he gone too far again, said too much?

“I think we need to get you home, Ed. You’ve had too much to drink.” He stands up and holds out his hand to Edward. 

Disappointed that their evening is coming to an end, Edward gets to his feet as steadily as possible. “I’m fine,” Edward insists. “Let’s fill in this grave.”

“All right. Just make sure you don’t fall in.” Oswald says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. 

He means it in jest but Edward takes it to heart—Oswald seems to care if Edward hurts himself, and that’s almost too much. He flings his arms around Oswald and hugs him tightly, murmuring “thank you” in his ear. He withdraws before Oswald can get mad, and goes to pick up his shovel and start heaping the soil back in. 

He doesn’t see Oswald’s eyes positively glow, as he stares at Edward, utterly entranced.

*

After a slow and overly careful drive back to the city, they finally arrive back at Oswald’s apartment building. They both sit there staring out of the windshield, occasionally awkwardly glancing at each other. Edward’s giddiness is diffusing now that the night is coming to an end. It makes him feel a little melancholy. He never wants this to be over. He doesn’t want to go back to work in his humdrum forensics job with people he can’t stand. He licks his lips and looks across at Oswald. 

“I had a wonderful evening.”

Oswald looks back at him and chuckles roguishly. “You make it sound like we were on a date.”

Edward releases an amused exhale. He thinks about the notion—he picked Oswald up, they engaged in an activity they both enjoyed, and they ended the night with a bottle of wine. It does sound like the conventional concept of a date…

Edward thrills at the idea.

“It was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

It’s the only date he’s ever been on, but Oswald doesn’t need to know that. 

Oswald looks down at his knees, smiling bashfully and shaking his head—is he _blushing_? The blood blooming high on his cheeks is stunning, and Edward takes a shaky breath—one can only take so much stimulation in one night.

Later he’ll blame it on the intoxicating combination of murder and wine, but he is powerless to stop the impulse to lean across the seats and plant a kiss on Oswald’s lips. 

Except...

He misses.

Oswald moves, startled by Edward’s sudden proximity, at the last moment, and Edward kisses just next to the corner of his mouth. He abruptly throws himself back into the driver’s seat, utterly mortified, his cheeks prickling. 

“Oh dear,” he mutters, fighting the urge to dramatically bang his head against the top of the steering wheel.

“What was _that_?” Oswald asks, though thankfully he doesn’t sound angry, just a little incredulous and uncertain.

Edward can’t bring himself to look at Oswald, and wishes fervently that his car had an ejector seat built into it.

“I’m sorry, I guess that... with everything that’s happened I got a bit carried away.” He’ll be lucky if Oswald ever wants to talk to him after taking such a liberty. _Why_ does he always ruin _everything_? It was all going so well, too. 

He waits for the car door on Oswald’s side to slam so he can drive off and wallow in a pit of shame, but the sound doesn’t come. He concentrates on keeping his breathing even, even though inwardly he’s panicking about already losing the best friend he’s ever had.

But then, Oswald covers Edward’s hand with his own. Edward looks down at their hands on his knee; Oswald’s hands are beautiful, his long elegant fingers still a little dirty and blood stained. Edward hesitantly looks up at Oswald, terrified of what he’s going to see. 

He’s closer than he was before, his whole body angled towards Edward, but his expression is kind. There’s something else there that Edward isn’t sure how to interpret, he just knows that no one has ever looked at him that way before. 

Oswald squeezes Edward’s hand. “If you wanted to try again, I wouldn't be...opposed.”

Edward gasps; his hand jolts under Oswald’s and his heartbeat starts going faster than the drums in _Ace of Spades_. 

He parts his lips as he looks at Oswald’s, determined not to make a hash of it this time. He leans across again, but stops just as their lips are about to touch. He can feel Oswald’s breaths, can hear them coming as fast as his. It makes him feel a little less panicked to know that Oswald, under all of his strength and power, does get a little nervous sometimes too. It gives him the courage to close the distance, and claim his first real kiss. 

Edward pulls away after a small chaste kiss, and opens his eyes to gouge Oswald’s reaction. He opens his eyes a few seconds later, appearing a little dazed. 

“That was good,” Oswald says, and his voice wavers slightly, much to Edward’s immense satisfaction. To think that _he_ has this affect on _Oswald_. Is this really happening?

“But I think you can do better,” Oswald adds. 

Edward’s mouth opens very slightly in shock at such open flirtation, and the person it’s coming from. Oswald lifts a hand then, and pulls Edward close. He says against Edward’s lips, “impress me.”

Electrified by a wave of desire at the command, Edward presses his lips against Oswald’s more forcefully this time, Oswald responsive and malleable under his touch. He kisses him chastely twice more before running his tongue along Oswald’s bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. Oswald doesn’t immediately grant it, so Edward gives the lip a tug with his teeth as he runs a hand into the back of Oswald’s hair, giving a gentle tug there too. There’s a little laugh, deep in his throat at Edward’s insistence, and he loves the sound, loves this game they’re playing. Oswald acquiesces then and their tongues slide together, and Edward tastes wine and earth and it reminds him of the bodies in the grave, people _they_ killed and dumped there. He remembers the blood as it first beaded and then poured from Charles’ neck, how _proud_ Oswald had looked when he had told him what a good job he’d done. He automatically tightens his grip on Oswald’s hair at the thought, and the man moans under him in response. 

Oswald had said to impress him, and Edward wants to show him how much he admires him, how inspired he is by him. In just a few short days he has made Edward feel more noticed and wanted than anyone has in the whole of his life. Oswald has brought him purpose, and shown him that life doesn’t have to be mundane, and that being ridiculed is not something he should simply put up with. For that, Edward owes him everything.

He lays his other hand on Oswald’s neck, feeling his pulse flutter beneath his fingers, remembering the one he had stopped earlier. Edward brushes his fingers over it reverently. This one must never stop. _Never_. He moves his hand so that it’s in the position it would be to strangle someone, but he doesn’t apply any pressure. He is saying, _I won’t ever hurt you. Your life is safe in my hands. You can trust me._ He continues to brush his thumb over the pulse point. Oswald sighs into their kiss. 

Edward shifts slightly as his trousers are getting uncomfortably tight, his desperately hard cock rubbing against the material. He’s been on edge all evening, and if Oswald were to touch him now it definitely wouldn’t take long. He can’t help the groan that escapes him at the thought of Oswald touching him, and he fully dominates the kiss, pulling Oswald’s hair backwards so Edward can lean over him and devour him. Oswald is simply letting him take what he wants, and that’s a dizzying thought. He’s _so_ close now, but he doesn’t know if Oswald would take kindly to what he might perceive as a _slight_ overreaction to a kiss. 

He leans away from Oswald slowly and gently, the man’s fingers grazing across Edward’s cheeks as he goes. Once fully back in his seat, he concentrates on deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He can hear Oswald’s deep breaths too, and they sit there like that for a few moments. 

“Well,” Oswald says, voice croaky, “consider me impressed.” He runs a shaky hand through his hair. Now that Edward looks at him, slightly less hazy now he’s no longer on the edge of orgasm, he does look thoroughly ruffled. _He_ did that. Reduced Oswald to a state of near incoherence. He can’t help the huge grin that spreads across his face. He must look comical because when Oswald looks at him he laughs. When he’s done, he shakes his head minutely at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“I should get going. I’ve left Martin with Victor Zsasz and goodness knows what he has been teaching him…”

“Alrighty then,” Edward says without thinking, and Oswald smirks. For a few moments they just smile across the seats at each other.

“You know Ed,” Oswald says, “If you ever get bored of forensics, there will be a place for you at the mansion.”

The smile drains from Edward’s face and is replaced by a look of astonishment as he processes what Oswald is saying. He looks completely sincere—he is really giving Edward an escape from his life, and offering him something far, far better.

He opens his mouth to eagerly accept his offer, but Oswald holds up a hand. 

“Think about it. Give it the weekend at least. You know how to reach me.”

And with that he leans across and gives Edward a lingering kiss that sets his nerve endings on fire. Edward finds himself still shocked by the intensity of it. It’s just a kiss after all, just lips on lips. But they’re _Oswald’s_ lips on his, and that’s what makes it something else. Oswald wants to kiss _him_ , Edward. He leaned back in for more, as though all he wants to do is stay here all night too, and that is extraordinary. Edward shakily lays a hand on one side of Oswald’s face. This kiss _burns_.

When Oswald starts to lean away, Edward places his other hand on the back of his head to slow him, and moves with him, so they don’t have to stop kissing. Edward isn’t sure how long he can wait before they do this again. 

Oswald indulges him for another couple of minutes but eventually he tears himself away. Edward reluctantly takes his hand away from the back of his head, biting his lip as he daringly smooths his thumb over Oswald’s cheek, cataloguing everything about the way he looks right now. Oswald is watching him just as intently. 

Edward notices movement in the corner of his eye then, and realises Martin is standing with a fierce looking man, who must be Victor Zsasz, just outside the entrance to Oswald’s building. When Martin catches Edward’s eye he waves excitedly. As Edward waves awkwardly back, Oswald follows his gaze, and actually starts blushing again. He supposes Oswald is wondering the same thing he is, just how long have they been standing there?

Oswald turns back to Edward, and though he’s clearly embarrassed that his son saw them kissing, he still looks happy. Edward is immensely relieved.

“Goodnight, Ed,” he says, before finally getting out of the car. He limps over to the other two and Zsasz takes his leave quickly, shooting Edward a wink and a thumbs up that leaves him feeling flustered and nonplussed. 

Edward takes a deep breath and starts the engine and the tape deck starts playing _Town Called Malice_. Edward wants to laugh with the sheer joy of it all. There’s a knock on his window then, and he looks across to see Martin with his notepad pressed against the window. 

_Thank you_

Oswald would have been able to do it without him, but Edward is glad to have been able to help. Now Oswald and Martin can live together in the comfort they both deserve. 

Edward leans across to wind down the window. “You’re welcome. Goodnight Martin.” 

Martin backs away then, waving and smiling at Edward as he pulls away from the curb. Edward grins at him, and casts one more glance back at Oswald, who’s waiting for Martin by the doors and watching them with keen eyes, before they’re out of sight. The music transitions into _The Passenger_ and Edward taps his fingers on the steering wheel happily, already wording his resignation letter for the captain in his head. 

*

Roy and Edward are sitting inside on this particular Sunday afternoon, since the rain is pouring and the wind is howling. Roy looks at Edward analytically as the skinny man moves a pawn across the board, his eyes alight with challenge. His green and black suit is much louder than the drab browns Roy is accustomed to.

“Well, how are things with you, Ed?” Truth be told, Roy has been wondering about Edward’s new association with Oswald Cobblepot all week, and is far more curious than he’s letting on.

“Oh, they’re _fantastic_ ,” Edward says, looking up. He pauses for a while, clearly for dramatic effect. His smile is borderline manic. “I’m going to quit my job for a life of crime.”

Roy drops the chess piece he had just picked up. Edward leans back in his seat and laughs, a laugh unlike any he has ever heard from him before. Something has been set loose; Edward has been irrevocably changed. In a way it’s unsettling, but in another, it’s nice to see Ed uninhibited and filled with purpose. 

He must have been staring because Ed leans forward, hands him the dropped pawn and says with a glint in his eyes and a confidence he never used to have, “your move.” 

Ed wins the match in record time.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. Thanks for reading :)


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